The Visit, Wolverine: A Short Story
by Dan Patrick Black
Summary: A quick, possibly existential, take on marvel's coolest hero Takes place the year following his Weapon X escape.


The Visit

(Wolverine: A Short Story)

by

Dan Black

_Am I a monster? Am I a Sinner? No, no you're not. "Yes you are. You're a killer. You killed all those people. And now you've done it again." No... I mean, I... I didn't want to do all of those things_. _I swear to you, my hand was forced. I was tortured. Violated. I was examined. Conditioned. I ran after that. I ran away from those times. I ran away from that place. I ran until my spirit was free. Free, but forever changed. Uncaged. Primordial._

_I can't remember. I can't remember the people, or the places. I can feel suffering, pain. I can hear screams_. _I see something. An image. There's a casket and it's overflowing. I step over it, and look down_. _It's blood. Blood is pouring out. Spewing from the sides. A plasma geyser. RED. Blood Red. Pulsing Red. It has a face. It's laughing at me, mocking me. Yes, I can remember that_.

_I don't have a family. I don't have a home, or a past, or a memory. Can I get through this? Can I live this way? Please tell me... please?_ _ANSWER ME!_

I wake up sweating. Delirious. Nauseous. I need to piss. I'm sore. Again. This has been happening for a few months now. Every time I wake up, my body tingles with pain. All over. My hands are the worst. They pulse, almost like they're waiting to pop. I crack my neck. It's loud, like two pieces of rusted metal. Grinding. I sit up, naked. My feet hit the floor. It's cold and dirty. My eyes are getting better. The blur is starting to fade. It feels like my vision has been bad since I can remember. Only slowly getting better. How long ago was that?

Sniff...Sniff. A soft mist hits the tip of nose, and slowly... works its way down, into the nostrils. It keeps going, farther. It goes deep inside my sinuses. Electrical waves are triggered. The waves rush through my head, into my brain. What a horrible smell. A human stench, probably my own.

Where am I? A toilet sits in the corner of the room. In the open. It's yellow-ish, with a seat, but no lid. Next to it, is a square sink. It's missing a handle, but it's surprisingly a glossy white. Above the sink, is a tiny little ovular mirror. One thin crack creaks up from the bottom, almost reaching the middle. The ceilings are low. The walls are green and crusted. Next to the bed is an old, splintered night stand with a phone sitting on top of it. There's one window. The shades are shut. God I'm sore.

I stumble over, above the toilet to piss. Feels good. I can see myself. My reflection. Somehow it's always a surprise. I'm starting to get use to it, though. I need to shave, and I would, if I had a razor. My hair is black. It's thrown back, and up, on both sides of my face. It's thick, but straight. My eyes are a dense, lush brown. They stand out, like a perfect white flower growing in a steamy, brown and green swamp. They shouldn't belong to a guy like me, these eyes. My nose is thick and straight, and my lips are chapped.

Where am I? How long have I been here? I walk to the window and open the shades. The sun is blinding. A perfect sparkling yellow. It's huge over the horizon. It rises, inch by inch. The snow reflects it. Shining divine. The streets are lined with old brick buildings. Telephone wires are everywhere. Cluttered. In the distance are white mountains, with green pine trees winding up the sides to the tops. They've conquered each one. The trees have conquered the mountains.

_MOTEL_. The sign outside says "motel". Yeah. Ya, that's right. I checked in a few days ago. As soon as I got into town. Is this Wardner? Cardston? No, this is Cranbrook. Right? It doesn't matter anyway. I'm somewhere on the border of Alberta and Idaho. I've been on the move for probably a year now. Two years? I'm a drifter. Hungry and homeless. Before that, I can't remember **anything**. But I try not to think about that. It'll only get me pissed off, more than I already am. And I don't want that.

I got a truck from a mechanic in Saskatchewan for about three-hundred dollars. It's slow, ugly, and old, but it works. What time is it? I put on my pants, and a shirt. My coat smells like cigars and my pants smell like alcohol. I need more money, and I'll get more. Tonight.

My front left pocket is where I keep my watch. It's chrome and shiny. I don't remember how I got this. I probably stole it. Or won it. The front is engraved "CC". It opens sideways, like a book. The keys to my truck, and the room, are in my right pocket. I lock the door behind me and head for the front desk.

This place is falling apart. The ceilings are crumbling and the walls are fading. There's eight rooms that line a hallway in one community building, one level. The front desk is in a separate little shack, farther towards the road. I walk through the hallway, outside. It feels good. The air is cool, crisp. There's a sawmill down the road. I can smell processed pine trees. White Pine. Great smell.

I recognize the guy at the desk. He must have been here when I checked in.

"Hey pal. How was your night? Good?" he asks. This guy must run the place. His head is completely shaved. To the skin. His face is scarred and unkempt. Nice watch, gold. No. I'm not taking this guy's watch. I can't go back to that.

Does he live here? More than what I have. There's a few dirty magazines piled on the table behind him. The desk is cluttered and disorganized. Behind it, is a door, slightly open. I can see something through the crack. A little toothpick of a leg, reddish tint. He must live here, that's probably his place back there. I tell him I need to stay here for another night, and ask how much that would cost me.

"Same as last night." he tells me. Fair enough. I give him tonight's pay. And start to walk out. After a couple steps I hear, "Hey... if your lookin' for anything in particular, I could probably help ya. Ya know, like... anything to make your mind at ease... or a "friend" for the night. Get's boring here... I could find ya a girl... What's your nam-" Before he can finish I turn my head. Real slowly. What does this guy think he's doing?

"My name is Logan, and no" I say, "I'm not interested. I'm busy tonight."

Finding extra cash is harder than it sounds. When I was farther east in Canada, I did some odd jobs here and there, just to get by. I worked at a loading dock on Lake Superior, loading up tankers and signaling to the crane operator when each shipment was full. It's not glamorous, but it works. When I was in Saskatchewan, I drove a forklift in a warehouse four days a week and I cleaned up a local bar two or three times a week. But its hard to keep a job when you never talk to anyone, including your boss. In each case, my boss started to question me, asking me why I can't give him any ID, or a birth certificate. Of course, they were both paying me under the table, tax free. And I couldn't give them any answers. So I just kept my mouth shut and worked. Well, you can only get away with that for so long. So I drove farther west. Now I'm here. But I've got a job tonight.

I need some caffeine. I must have drank last night. Although, I do feel this way every morning. There's a little diner down the road. Coffee sounds good. The town is small, not tiny, not Population: 358 small, but small. The motel is on the east end. There's a river to the south. This diner is west a ways. Down the main drag. I walk there, it's a little cold out, but I'll manage. God knows I've been through worse.

_Diner_, it says. The outside is pasty blue and white, with pink trim. I walk in, the bell on the door rings. The customers, workers, they all stare. Nobody knows who I am. I don't care. People can stare at me all they want, but cross me, and I might just snap. I sit down at a little table for one near the back. Table for one, suits me. I reach into my coat pocket to pull out my copy of The Brothers Karamazov. I must have read this book about fifty times since I bought it. I stole it from garage sale a few months ago. Without a steady job, reading helps pass the time. But is has become more than that. It's grown on me.

The waitress walks up to take my order. She's dark skinned and dark haired. She's curvy, voluptuous. A realwoman. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail behind her head. She's wearing a little pink uniform that is probably too small for her. Her name tag says, "Betty". That's a nice name. Simple.

"Hi...", she's incredibly sincere, and she means it.

"Hope your doin' alright today." I smile and nod. I feel a bit uncomfortable.

"What can I getcha?" I tell her I just want a cup of coffee. She tells me she knew that's what I wanted. Before I can say more, she's gone. Off to get my coffee. Why didn't I say anything? I will, when she comes back.

_And still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place._ I never get tired of the opening. It describes what the reader is in for with such subtlety. The perfect novel.

Betty is back. She looks better than she did the first time. She's exotic. Sensual.

"Here you are mister." I give her a simple thank you, without looking at her.

"You don't look too familiar. I don't think I've ever seen you. Are from out of town?" I don't say anything. My head is tilted down, towards my coffee. I'm shy.

"Well...", Betty tells me, " I know how hard it is to be in a new place. I've done it." Please just leave me alone, Betty. You're a beautiful woman, and you don't want to be involved with anything like me. I don't say anything though, I just sit. Looking straight ahead.

"I know how hard it is to start over. Is that what your doin'? Starting over?" She see's something inside me, she's... different. Different than everyone else. I look up to her, her eyes are beautiful, captivating. They radiate an honesty I've never seen before. Finally. Someone **finally** understands me. And there is a pause... and for a moment nothing in the world matters...

"Uhh... I'd better get back to work ..." And with that, it's over. When she brings me my check, she doesn't say a word. She doesn't even look at me. I just pay my bill, then politely, quietly, walk out. I was right, nothing does matter.

Should I feel strange living this way? Moving from place to place without knowing a soul? I have trouble meeting people. I keep to myself. I wish I was different. The truth is, you are what you are, and nothing short of evolution itself, will change that.

I walk back to my motel room, to read more and have a meal. On my way back, I see a sign above one of the bars in town, Lou's. It says: _Bare Knuckle Boxing: Tonight - Next Friday. 9pm, $50/fight._ I'll be there tonight. I signed up yesterday. Or two days ago? I need to put down some money on myself. Make a little extra tonight.

It sounds strange but, when I get hurt, Wounded. Cut, scraped, bruised, torn, I... I get better almost right away. I heal fast. I don't know why, or how. But it has been that way since I can remember. Which, sadly, isn't all that long ago. Is it a gift, or a curse?

When I get back to the motel, the owner is there with a girl. She looks pretty young. Eighteen or nineteen. She's tiny. Fragile. Her hair is mess and her clothes are too big for her. The owner looks like hell, too. But I have a feeling that's the way he always looks.

My room is just the way I left it. There's a large black bag sitting in the corner, full of clothes. There's a grocery bag sitting under the window, full of canned goods and a few vegetables. The sheets sit on floor beside the bed. The mattress is bare. Cold. The shades are only partially open. The mirror is still cracked from the bottom, up to the middle. Outside the window, the trees still sit atop the mountains. Nothing has changed. There's a few empty beer bottles scattered around the floor. Nothing has changed.

I'm so hungry. I shut the door behind me and take my coat off. I reach into the brown paper bag to grab a can of beans and I fill my mug with water from the sink. I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall across from the bed. I sit cross legged. I read my book while I eat. I eat slowly. This way, it feels like I'm eating more. _It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor. _This is my life.

Later that night I put on a fresh shirt. I found a brown winter hat in the hallway. Good find. I needed a hat. It's cold, get's even colder at night. I'm going to box tonight. I don't care who it is either. I'll fight the biggest guy in that bar if I have to. I **will not** lose.

I feel good. At night, around eight or nine, the aching goes away. And I feel good for about five or six hours. I have to make the best of it. I'm going to be sore when I wake up tomorrow, and I'll probably have nightmares again tonight. Then, I'll wake up feeling worse than the day before. Got to make the best of it. I lock up and take off for Lou's.

The bar is rustic. Fading. It's had to have been here for twenty, thirty years. There's a neon sign above the front door that says "Lou's Pub". Below that, is a smaller sign, the boxing information is on it. The front door is wood. Its got a small window near the top of it. There are no other windows on the outside. It looks like a barn. A barn with a neon sign, and an amateur boxing advertisement.

The inside is actually quite spacious. The bar is in the back, to the right. To my immediate right are a couple of pool tables. All the way to left, next to the wall, is a little stage area. There are tables that line the walls and the front of the stage, and it's elevated three or four steps. A chain link fence winds all the way around the stage, and bright lights illuminate it. The rest of the bar is dark and smoky. There are probably about fifty, maybe sixty, people in here. It's loud. No body recognizes me. Some stare. As I walk to the back, to the bar, I can hear all sorts of chatter. Mostly about the fights tonight. There's one bartender working. He's chatting with a couple women sitting on the far side of the bar. I take a seat right in the middle.

"Whatcha havin'?" The bartender practically has to scream so that I can hear him. He's a shorter guy, about my height. He's got a dark brown ponytail. Looks maybe Native American. But he speaks perfect English. An older fellow, maybe in his mid-fifties. I notice a few tattoos on his right forearm. One of some sort of bird. I ask him for a beer and a whiskey. When he asks me what kind of beer, I tell him anything thick.

"No problem. Be right back." I wonder how many fights they have a night. This place smells stale. I think I fit in here. More than anywhere else, anyway.

"Here you go 'bub." Bub? I throw back my shot and start drinking my beer. It's warm in here. A taller fellow takes a seat next to me. He gives me a couple of peculiar looks. I don't say anything. I don't need any trouble tonight. The last thing I want to do is get kicked out of here. I ask the bartender what his name is, he says I can call him "Shep". I say alright Shep, my name is Logan.

"Are you here to watch some bare-knuckle, or just to drink?" The truth is, I'm here to participate in some bare knuckle, and maybe watch a little. Drink too. That's what I tell Shep. He almost reminds me of myself, without the infectious depression gnawing away at him.

I love cigars. Cigars and beer. I pull out a backwood. Smells fresh. Tastes old. A little hand reaches in front of me. It looks smooth, soft. It sparks a light. I breathe in. Puff... puff.

"You looked like you needed a light." It's Betty. The waitress from the diner today. She's sitting right next to me. I turn my head away from her, staring into the bottles of liquor, somehow praying she'll leave, and at the same time, come home with me. She should leave now, she'd really be better off. She's focused on me. She doesn't look away. She looks even better now than she did the first, and the second time. Stay with me Betty.

"Glad to see **you **here. I never got your name today..." I don't answer her. I don't give her my name. I don't look at her. I want to, but I don't. She puts her hand on my thigh, and I take another shot. She smiling, I can tell. For a moment, I contemplate getting up. Walking away. Don't do this Betty. I finally turn my head to her. I tell her... I tell her I think she's a beautiful woman, but that I'm a mess. And someone like her is too nice, too sweet, too good for me. I tell her I can't remember my childhood, or much of my past. I tell her I am dangerous, and that I may have killed a man before, but that I don't know for sure. She only rubs my leg more.

She grabs her drink with her other hand. No, I can't do this. She has a ring on her finger. She's married. I can't do this.

"Let me get you another drink...", she knows. She knows what I know. Her ring. I know she's got a husband. At home, or even here, in this bar somewhere. She realizes this, and she takes her hand off of my leg. And she slouches over, leaning on the bar. I can see that she wants to cry, and that maybe she is, just not showing it. She empty's her glass. Her head is tilted down, towards her feet. I ask her if she loves her husband.

"Yeah. I mean, he's... he's great. I just..." I can tell her mind is racing.

"Excuse me." She gets up, from the bar, and walks away, towards the ladies room.

Goodbye Betty. Find your husband. Hopefully he's looking for you, but I have a feeling he's not.

"Are you Logan?" A hand hits my shoulder. I'm trying to drink my beer. I say: who's askin'?

"I'm Lou. This is my bar. Your fighting tonight, correct?" Lou's got a red and green flannel shirt on. He's clean cut. A little husky. Hunched. I tell him that I'm fighting tonight, and that he should put his money on me.

"Your up in about fifteen minutes. Do you need anything Mister Logan?" Nope, not me. I'm fine just the way I am. A few more drinks couldn't hurt, though. I put down two hundred on myself, I give the money to Lou. He starts to point out who I'm fighting, I interrupt him. Don't tell me, I say to Lou. He asks why. Because it doesn't matter. It won't matter.

Minutes later I'm standing on one side of the stage. Behind the fence. The cage. Everyone is yelling and screaming. I block them out. I block it all out. I just look into the face of the man across from me. My knuckles crack. It's loud. A man steps in between us, he starts to address the crowd, but I block it out. My shirt, wallet, watch, and keys are in the corner. I finish off my last beer. The man between us is now gone. And once again, I'm with my opponent. Just him, and me. The moon and the stars come out, they look down upon us. We are suddenly deep in the forest. Surrounded by pine trees. Welcome to my cage. A bell rings and he runs at me low, throws a fist into my ribs. I elbow the side of his head, and he drops. But gets up quickly. We circle. Jab... jab. He gets close to me, right in my face. He tries to throw a couple uppercuts, I block them. He pushes me back, into the fence and gives chase. He starts to pummel my torso. Over and over again. I throw a hook into that little spot, where the neck meets the ear. He winces. He backs off, and I advance. He weaves a little bit. Jab...jab. Then I start to move to his left and we exchange blows back and forth for what seems like forever. We rest, staring into each others eyes. A pause. Then, he rears back and starts to throw a big haymaker, he's going for my face. I do the same. Both our hands glide, streamlined, through the air. His fist into my nose, and my fist into his eye. Same time. I'm not phased. He falls to the ground, with a massive cut, shaped like a C, around his eye. He's moving. But blood is flowing from his eye. The red stains the snow. The forest is a part of me. The trees watch. The wolves creep out, into the moonlight. He didn't have a chance to begin with. Not here, anyway. The wolves howl. They gather, licking their chops. And I stand above the body, in my forest. Predator and prey.

_Suddenly - _I'm back at Lou's, behind the cage. The moderator steps up onto the stage, into the cage. He waves his hands high in the air. I help the figure below me to his feet, and shake his hand. It is done.

The rest of the night I sit in the corner of the bar. By myself. Counting my money over, and over, and over again. I drink more, and more. Until the pains are gone. My _other_ healing factor. I drink to my fight, to my past. I drink until I'm blind. The visions are blurred. It hides me from the horrors, the nightmares. It hides me from _him_.

When I leave Lou's I say goodbye to Shep. He tells me he'll see me again on Thursday. I tell Lou thanks and he says, No, thank **you **Logan. Apparently I drew quite the crowd, me being an out of towner and all. He gives me my money. More than I expected. He tells me I'll get even more if I come back on Thursday. Thanks Lou, good to meet you Shep, goodbye Betty. Have a nice life.

I walk back to the motel, I feel re-energized. Changing. From the road I can see a little figure, standing outside the building, smoking a cigarette. I get a little closer and I can see that it's a girl. Have I seen her before? Her pale little legs stand out in the dark. Her hair is a dirty blonde, and it's dangling over her face. She's wearing a skirt, and a jacket. Her eyes are deep in her head, darkened. She's eyeing me up. Up and down.

"I've seen you around." She moves to the door, blocking me from it.

"What's your hurry? Going to bed _early_?" She smells good.

"I saw you fight tonight. It was incredible." She wraps her shoe around her leg, and glides it up and down. Smoke seeps out the side of her mouth.

"You don't say much, do you." I tell her that there usually isn't much to say. That usually my actions speaks for me. I ask her what she thinks she's doing. I tell her its cold, and I want to get inside.

"Only if you take me with you." She grabs my belt buckle. Pulls me towards her. She gives me a little kiss. I grab her hand and take her back to my room. I don't want to, but I do anyway. She tells me she's twenty-two, but that's a lie. She can't be any older than twenty. And me, I don't even know how old I am. Probably too a old for this girl. This isn't right, but I do it anyway.

The entire time I think of Betty. I think of the first time I saw her. I think of her walking up, to ask me what I would like. How about a relationship? I think of Betty, her hair. Her lips. Eyes. The girl I'm with is thin. Petite. Tiny. And the whole time, this girl, this fragile little girl, doesn't show any emotion. Her face is plain, like a mug shot. She doesn't move at all. She doesn't look at me. I shouldn't be doing this. I can't do this. I stop and put my jeans back on, I tell her I can't. I can't do this with you. She doesn't seem too surprised, I think she knew it was wrong to begin with. I take a seat on the floor. She's still on the bed.

"What's wrong?" She asks. You know what's wrong. You know as well as I do, you're young. Too young.

"I am not! I'm a woman. I can handle myself." No you can't. You think you're a woman, how old are you, I ask.

" Nineteen." I tell her that I should take her home.

"Can I just stay here tonight, please?" Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can. I make her a bed with the sheets from the floor. She's on the bed. I'm on the floor. My eyes are starting to shut, my mind is drifting, the dreams are coming when...

All of a sudden the door knob starts to turn. Quietly, and slowly. But, I locked it. BOOM! The door is kicked open, it slams against the wall. And there, standing in the doorway, is the owner, the guy from the front desk. The bald, scarred owner. He looks like he's ready to kill someone. His face is dark. He takes one step into the room, into the light. He's breathing heavily, and sweat is coming off of his forehead. One of his hands is behind his back, holding something. His other hand is clenched into a fist.

"What do you think your doing here, with this guy, you little bitch." He looks at me, then back at her. Then at me. Back to her. He's holding a gun behind his back. Put it down.

"What did I do for you? I gave you food! I gave you a place to stay! Your **mine**! You fucking bitch! You don't belong to this asshole, you're **my** GIRL!" He steps closer to the two of us, revealing the gun to us. He points it at me. I'm sitting on the floor. I'm calm. She's still on the bed, naked. She's crying now. Crying her eyes out. Someone has to hear it.

"You stay right there. Don't you dare fuckin' get up." He tells me. You don't want this, bub'. Neither do I.

He grabs the girl by her hair. I never got her name. I engaged in the most intimate of acts possible with another human being, and I didn't even get her name. What is wrong with me.

She tries to hit him, he just takes the butt end of his pistol and smashes it into her face, maybe breaking the nose. Blood drips from her nostril, into her mouth. He yanks her off of the bed, onto the ground, and shuts the door. The gun is still pointed towards me. He starts to kick her, and spit on her. She just keeps screaming. Squirming. His boots dig into her skin. Her ribs.

I'm watching this. And, inside me... something happens. A change. Not in my head, or my mind. But in my chest. In my soul. Another man, another entity takes control of me. I can't stop it. It won't stop. It's all consuming. Passionate. Fierce. It reaches into me and rips me apart. _This is pain. This is your life. This is what you are. If you won't face it I will._ It grabs me. It grabs all that I know, and feel. My essence. It takes these things, and consumes them.

I am reborn. A beast. And my hands, they bleed. They pulse. And then, a sound. A sound I will never forget. **SNIKT**. These... these things. These blades, knives, razor sharp... come out of my hands. Stained with my own blood. The blood of the man underneath the monster. They tear through my skin. To emerge. Weapons. Claws.

I leap to my feet, and attack. And I devour this man without question. The blood sprays. Fountains, upon fountains. Painting the walls, the sheets, the girl. I split tendons, and I crush bones. I cut through muscles and I spill out entrails. I keep going long after he's dead. I turn this motel room into a horror movie. And I can't stop myself. I know this is wrong, but I can't stop. The girl screams. Her screams fill the town. They reach the wilderness. She grabs a bed sheet, wraps it around herself, and runs. Runs from the room, covered in blood. Blood and tears. And suddenly the door is kicked open, again–

"Put your hands in the air!" I am told. I don't hear him. I just strike. I drive these things through his throat. And he falls to the floor, to my feet. I crouch over the bodies, crazed. Psychotic. My senses come back. My reason. What have I done?

Oh God... Oh. Oh no... NO! I can't... I, what have I done? This is not the first time. This has happened before. Long ago. This man was a **police officer**! I have murdered a woman beater and a **police officer** tonight! In the most horrible of ways. I slaughtered these men as if they were livestock. What am I? What am I doing! What have I done! I fall to my knees. Into a carpet of blood. My head tilts back, up, towards the stars. I lay out my hands, dripping with blood.

Am I a monster? Am I a Sinner? _Yes you are. You're a killer. You killed all those people. And now you've done it again._ But I... I was taken over, it wasn't really **me**. It was _him_. It was the demon, the killer that took over my body. **HE** did it. Not me. _But who do you think that killer is? Do you think it's another man, separate from you? No. That killer did take control, but it came from inside **you**. You made that killer, not some nameless, faceless entity, or some far off place. It came from **you**_. _And you alone. You made this horrible monster of the wilderness. This crazed... wolverine. You made him, and you didn't stop him._

No... I mean, I... I didn't want to do all of those things. You have to believe me! Why won't you believe me! I don't have a family. I don't have a home, or a past, or a memory. Without these things I am a monster. I am a living weapon capable of the most horrible things. Can I get through this? Can I live this way? Please tell me... please? ANSWER ME! Fine.**He's** the one who has done this to me, to my life. If He won't answer me, I'll end all of this. Right here, right **now**.

I take my hands, I take my claws, and I slice them, deeply, through my wrists. The veins divide. Freedom. Freedom from this awful existence. And I bleed. Screaming, cursing Him. But the bleeding stops. Oh no... **NO!** The wounds mend, all the way up, to the skin. And all that is left are scars. Three scars. Scars of my past. Scars of tonight. And I hang my head, kneeling in a room of body parts, I have failed Him, I have failed myself.

Deep inside, I knew it wouldn't work. I knew I would heal. I heal fast. Why, though? Why have I been placed in this situation? No physical pain on Earth could amount to the way I feel every day. Can I change? Can I get better? I have to try. I have to try to control, to tame myself. And then, with a surge of energy and concentration... **SNAKT**.

And I run, I flee this town and everyone in it. I grab all that I can, I get into my truck, and I run. I drive. Endlessly into a starry night. The blood of myself, and two men, drips from my hands. There are going to be looking for me. They'll find me. I'll be ready.


End file.
